


The Sea Wolf Rises

by Unreal_Kitty



Series: Sea Wolf AU [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Death Fix, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Mid-Season, Old Gods, POV Sansa Stark, POV Theon Greyjoy, Sansa-centric, Season/Series 08, Theon-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2020-03-02 11:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18810280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unreal_Kitty/pseuds/Unreal_Kitty
Summary: Let Theon your servant be born again from the sea, as you were.Sansa mourns. The Drowned God welcomes. And Theon rises.





	1. Sansa

Sansa couldn’t stop shaking. The chill crept from deep within her bones and snaked outward, wrapping around her lungs, her muscles, her heart. This wasn’t the cold of the Dead Army’s storm, nor even the icy shock of plunging into the river during her escape from Winterfell. It was the cold of her father’s greatsword, slick with his own blood. The cold of a raven from the Twins, carrying dark news of her brother.

_Theon._

A trail of dried blood ran from mouth to chin. His eyes stared at the sky. They were the color of sea glass, and just as empty. She barely noticed when Jon threw himself around her. She heard someone wail. The sound came from her own body, but she was far away. She was lying dead in the snow, impaled on a broken spear.

_Theon_.

After everything. She had put her hand in his once, and joined their fates. When they jumped, they survived, together. When they ran, they escaped, together. Now, suddenly, there would be no more together’s. The next time she’d jump from a rampart, she’d jump alone.

“Theon,” she choked.

Jon said nothing. What could he possibly say? Bran, with Arya behind him, was as silent as the weirwood tree. But while the tree wept red tears, her little brother sat stone-faced.

A wave of exhaustion swept over Sansa, and the shaking of grief gave way to the shaking of muscles no longer capable of bearing the strain. But she needed to stand tall. Lady may be her title, but in the past months, Sansa had learned to play the queen.

“Pick him up,” she ordered. “He should rest in the crypt, with Robb and Rickon.” Sansa thanked the gods her voice betrayed only the slightest tremor. No one moved. Her eyes narrowed. “Bran’s alive because of him. We’re alive because of him. He was our _**brother**_.”

_He was something more than a brother_ , she thought to herself. She tried to push the thought out of her head. Whatever he was, she wanted him close when it came time for her own bones to rest in the ancient catacombs.

“Sansa…” Jon started, uncertainly. It was an awkward moment. There was no tomb in the Stark crypt set aside for a Greyjoy.

“He was our brother,” Sansa insisted through gritted teeth.

“He was.” Everyone jumped when Bran spoke. “But he can’t stay here.”

“Bran! He died to protect you!” Sansa exclaimed.

“He did. But nevertheless...,” Bran’s eyes grew glassy, as though focused on a scene far away from the bloodstained godswood where they gathered. “Nevertheless, he came from the sea. And to the sea he must return.”

Sansa tried to meet Arya’s eyes, seeking support. Her sister was uncharacteristically quiet, eyes fixed on Theon’s body.

“Arya, Jon. What would Father do?” said Sansa, shifting tactics. “What is the _honorable_ thing to do?”

Jon frowned. “I suppose-“

“We _must_ return him to the sea,” interrupted Bran, with more force in his voice than Sansa had heard him muster since he first returned home.

A bit of the old Bran peeked through his eyes. They were alert and present. “Trust me,” he continued in a softer, yet no less intent voice.

_Trust me._ Sansa felt another shiver race up her spine. She could have sworn she heard the weirwood behind Bran echo his words. Sansa released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and her shoulders, raised in battle, dropped. Pressing her lips together, she slowly nodded.

“To the sea, then,” she said.

………

They couldn’t carry Theon all the way to the ocean. It was too far from landlocked Winterfell, and they had skant time to prepare for the southern battle to come. Not for the first time, Sansa cursed the dragon queen and her insistence to start another war before they had sufficient time to recover from the last.

So instead, they brought him to the White Knife. The river waters would bear Theon to White Harbor, where he’d join with the Narrow Sea.

Sansa gazed out at the river. It charged past them, its rapid white current earning the river its name.

The group gathered at the riverbank was larger than Sansa had expected. Most of the North had paid their respects to the fallen earlier, in Winterfell, and she knew many would have conflicted feelings about the man whom they once named Theon Turncloak. So when a good several dozen smallfolk joined the Starks and their southern company at the shore, Sansa felt a rush of relief. Theon told her once he didn’t want to be forgiven. But at least some of his people would mourn for the Hero of the Godswood anyway.

Theon lay on a simple raft, the Greyjoy banner draped over him. _A rather menacing funeral shroud_ , Sansa thought, as she eyed the golden kraken. _But maybe it will protect him beneath the wave_ s. She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat. With his body buried in sand instead of encased in stone, they’d be parted forever.

Jon came up from behind her and placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. He gave her a squeeze and then turned to address the crowd.

“Theon Greyjoy came to us when he was but eight years old. A young kraken with a crooked smile and far too much confidence for his own good.” Sansa’s upper lip quirked slightly, remembering.

“We didn’t get on well, when we were boys. We competed for Robb’s attention. And for Father’s. Plus, while I hate to admit it, he was a better shot than me.”

“But, archery skills aside, we were more alike than not. Two boys with the wrong name who wanted nothing more than to run with the wolves. Now, we’ve both made terrible mistakes, and paid for them dearly. We’ve both been trapped between allegiances, and we’ve both had pieces of ourselves ripped away.”

Sansa grew rigid, the hair standing up on her arms. She didn’t want to recall the horrors Theon suffered at the hands of Ramsey Bolton. Nor was she prepared to contemplate her brother’s death, even if he had managed to return.

“But in the end we both came home. Because a wolf belongs with his pack. The North calls me the White Wolf, though my name isn’t Stark. Well, his name might be Greyjoy, but Theon was every bit as wolf as I am.”

Jon paused, as though calling up a memory. Then his body language changed- he seemed to grow taller and older, his face as calm and deep as frozen lake. For a moment, Sansa saw her father.

“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,” he said.

In unison, he and the rest of the Starks repeated the phrase, like a mantra, like a prayer. The words rose from them effortlessly, automatically. How many times had her father uttered them?

“Theon might have fallen, but the pack survives because of his sacrifice. We live because this wolf came home.”

Jon curled his right hand into a fist and pressed it over his heart. “To Theon Greyjoy, the Sea Wolf.”

The sound of a hundred fists thumping against a hundred chests reminded Sansa of a battle drum. “To the Sea Wolf!” the crowd cried out.

Jon took a step backward and nodded at Bran. Surely their brother would want to speak. But after a long look at Theon’s body, Bran said nothing but, “What is dead may never die.” That was all.

Sansa gritted her teeth. Her mind flashed to the blood trailing across Theon’s face. The weeping wound in his gut. His red hair dusted with white snow.

Arya walked up and clapped Bran’s shoulder. He retreated.

“ _Valar morgulis_ ,” Arya said. “Theon died with honor. The North will remember.”

_Father would be proud_ , Sansa thought. She wished her sister would speak for longer though.   
It was her turn and she was not ready. She would never be ready. But she’d speak all the same.

She never had the chance for her Father, who was never supposed to die. Nor for Robb or her mother, murdered leagues away. Or even for Bran, who still breathed but had truly fell beyond the Wall. So before Theon slipped beneath the waves, she would speak.

“My brother Jon named Theon ‘Sea Wolf.” A Greyjoy, a Stark. In truth, he has had many names. Brother and Turncloak, Prince and Servant.”

She paused, thinking of another name. _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with ‘weak_ ,’ she heard him utter furiously to himself.

She swallowed hard, and continued.“I have had many names too. Little Bird, Queen-To-Be, Alaine, Lannister, Bolton. With so many names, it can be hard to remember who you really are. What person lives behind the titles? Somewhere along the way, the names bury you.”

“Theon dug me out, just when I thought I’d never see sunlight again. I’m not sure there’s anyone else who could have done so. He knew what it was like to lose your name. So I reminded him of his, and he rescued me in kind.”

Sansa fought to keep her voice steady. She remembered that last night, the firelight flickering across his face. The warmth in his eyes. Her hand on his. Her lips on his. That last night, when they chose each other, over anyone else in the world.

“I stand now at his grave. It’s up to me again to remember his name. As for my name, I know it well. He made sure of that. I am Sansa Stark. Who loved a man named Theon Greyjoy, of Pike and Winterfell.”

The world was silent but for the river’s chatter as it hurried toward the sea.

Before anyone could stop her, she waded into the water, soaking her skirts up to the knee. She remembered another time, in a river just as frigid. She thought she would freeze. She thought she would die. But he took her hand, and he held her in his arms. And they survived.

She reached the raft where Theon lay, and brushed a hand to his cheek. Despite the chill, her hand remained steady. Then she pulled a direwolf brooch from its place above her heart. She had wrapped a lock of her long red hair around it. _Just like in the o_ l _d stories_ , she thought. Neatly, Sansa placed the pin on Theon’s breast. _The lady sends her handsome prince off to his next adventure with a favor… and a kiss._

She tenderly brushed away an errant red curl and kissed Theon’s lips. A few tears dropped onto his face, but she didn’t wipe them off. _Salt from Winterfell_ , she thought. _Add that to your sea-salt, my pirate prince._

Sansa took his hand one last time and gave it a squeeze. “Goodbye, Theon.” She took a shuddering breath. “I love you.”

Sansa gave the raft a shove and watched as the river current caught hold. 


	2. Theon

The last thing Theon remembered was a pair of Stark-grey eyes. Arya’s eyes. A welcome sight indeed — he had been terrified the last eyes he’d see were ice-blue. But it was Arya who crept past him, Arya whose silent nod reassured him that he wouldn’t die a failure.

Theon would have smiled, if he had the strength. He used to smile so easily and so often. Then he died and the creature Reek, who took his place, never smiled at all. But Sansa brought him back, with a magic deeper and more powerful than anything the Lord of Light could manage. For a brief time, Theon thought he might find his smile once more. If he could only see her again...

But now his time had run out, and the last eyes Theon would ever see were Stark grey, not Tully blue.

Then Arya’s eyes faded, and the world faded with her.

..........................................

At first, Theon felt nothing.

Then the cold came, washing across his skin. _I’m going home to Winterfell._ The thought confused him. Going home? He was in the godswood, already in Winterfell. Then he tasted salt. _No, I’m going home to Pike._

He remembered the first time he returned, with the wind at his back, Rob’s desperation howling at his back. Sea spray dusting his cheek like Winterfell snow. The captain’s daughter on her back.

He remembered setting foot ashore, pebbles crackling beneath his feet. Dismissive eyes, and sardonic tongues, welcoming home the Prince That Wasn’t. He had tried to brush the sinking feeling away. He had clung to that false bravado for the entire ride to the castle. Throughout that entire…..unfortunate business with his sister.

He remembered his father, his piercing eyes like arrows, his grim mouth, the bow.

_‘My fears have come true. The Starks have made you theirs.’_

If only that were true. For they never quite claimed him, no matter how much he longed to be claimed. Lord Eddard’s greatsword remained poised above his neck. Never mind how often he allowed Theon to carry it for him. The direwolf bitch had but six pups, five for Stark and one for Snow. Even the gods refused him a wolf.

_‘The Starks have made you theirs._ ’ Yes, his Lord Father was quite the archer.

_If only he’d shot me with real arrows,_ Theon thought, recalling the acrid scent of burning parchment. _Betrayal, the singers say. Yes, betrayal of the worst sort. Robb, yes, my brothers, yes, but myself most of all.The lone wolf dies...and neither Wolf nor Kraken would have me then. No matter how loud my howl or how strong my arms._

Theon died the moment he burned that letter, and he knew it. He died and went to Winterfell. Where was he now, he wondered? The cold soaked into his bones. He shivered. It was too cold for the salty sea, even in winter. This was another cold, and familiar. _The crypts,_ he thought! Hot spring water ran throughout the walls of the castle, but the Stark burial ground remained as frigid as death.

Theon sighed, a slight smile creeping across his lips. At least he’d see Robb again. And Lord Eddard. His captor and father, keeper and judge. He needed to tell them...tell them…..he didn’t know what to say. But he needed to say something. He’s have all the time in the world to think.

Rickon must be here too, he realized. Rickon shouldn’t be here. None of them should. And none of them would, but for the hunger of Lions and darkness of Night.

“Well, the Night _is_ dark and full of terrors,” said a familiar voice from behind Theon.

He startled, and whipped around.

Robb grinned at him from the darkness. Except, it wasn’t quite Robb. His eyes were too deep, his smile too weary. He sat on a throne of many colors, a twisted knot of coral, sand, and seaglass.

“What is this place?” Theon whispered.

“Come now, lad. You know this hall.”

“It’s just a legend.”

The Drowned God raised a dark eyebrow.

“A dream,” said Theon, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Your dreams have rung true before, have they not?”

Theon frowned, staring at the seaweed-slickened floor. He remembered a terrible dream, from back when he had taken Winterfell. The feast of the dead. King Robert with that terrible wound in his stomach, a headless Lord Eddard at his right hand. The miller’s wife, with worms crawling from her eyes, a face he would never forget.

Some of the dead he had never met. Lyanna Stark, with her crown of blue roses, and Lord Rickard, who like his son, had never returned from King’s Landing. And then, worst of all…

_The tall doors opened with a crash, and a freezing gale blew down the hall, and Robb came walking out of the night. Grey Wind stalked beside, eyes burning, and man and wolf alike bled from half a hundred savage wounds._

Theon had jolted awake then, his eyes as red as a weirwood tree’s.

“A dream can ring as true as a bell and as loud as a storm,” said the Drowned God. Theon wrenched his gaze back toward him.

The storm-grey eyes of Maester Lewin stared back.

“But if this is real...if you’re…” Theon shook his head. “This is wrong. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, is that so?” His tone had the air of a tutor guiding his student toward some deeper understanding. Or perhaps, years of Lewin’s schooling had conditioned Theon to expect a lesson. “Where else should Theon Sea Wolf find himself, at the end of things?”

“Sea Wolf?”

“That’s what they call you now. Jon Snow knows a thing or two about the power of names. Needless to say, it caught on.”

For a moment, Theon’s heart leapt in his chest. Then he remembered where he was. “It’s too late. It doesn’t matter what they call me. It’s over.”

“What are our words, Theon?” asked the Drowned God, sternly.

Theon frowned. “We do not sow.”

“No! Not that foolish boast of House Greyjoy. _Our_ words, which belong to all who walk the path of sea and stone!”

“What is dead may never die.”

“But rises again harder and stronger,” finished the Drowned God. He wore the face of Balon Greyjoy. “Theon Sea Wolf will live forever.”

_What is dead may never die._ When he first came to Winterfell as a boy, he and Robb and Jon would sit by the hearth as Old Nan told them stories. Robb loved most the dark tales from beyond the Wall, of ice spiders and the Rat Cook. But Theon begged for tales of chivalry, Hero-tales. He’d listen with rapt attention to Symeon Star-Eyes and Durran Godsgrief and the Winged Knight.

And when the hour grew late and they were sent off to bed, Theon would whisper to the other boys of the Grey King, with his crown of fangs and his mermaid wife.

Even as he grew older, Theon insisted on playing the prince. He dressed in a fur-lined cloak and velvet doublet, and yes, he wore a chain of gold around his neck. He wore the emblem of the Kraken but paid the gold price for it. He played the prince and dreamed of living a legend of his own. He’d even hoped that Sansa, Sansa with her own dreams of Florian and Jonquil….

_Sansa_. He sighed. What’s the good of a legend, at the end of things? He’d never see her again, so far out to sea. He could just imagine Yara teasing him, once she’d arrive (hopefully a long time from now.) She’d taunt him for staring at this god of many faces for eternity, praying to see the face of Sansa Stark.

“Theon.” The high, familiar voice jolted him from his reverie as a chill flooded his bones. _Not that voice. Not him, please not him._

Ramsey Bolton grinned at him, devilishly. “Theon Sea Wolf.” He over-pronounced the name, lingering on each syllable as though testing out the name on his tongue. “A good name. And an old one. You will wear it well.”

Theon couldn’t think. He knew it wasn’t really Ramsey, but he couldn’t stop shaking. _He can’t hurt you anymore. He’s gone. You’re gone. Come on, Theon._

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. He’d had enough of this. “My Lord,” he began. “What would you have of me?”

The Drowned God smiled. “I want you to understand, before you go, lad. I know you pine for the crypts of Winterfell. You needn’t fret. All men come to me in the end, whether they bleed or burn or drown. All men must die. It’s inevitable. Whether buried in stone or beneath the waves, they’ll find their way to me.”

Once again, Theon was thrown back into confusion. _Before I go where?_ Before he could ask, the Drowned God continued. This time, he wore the face of Ned Stark.

“Of course, Bran had the right idea, though. All men will find their way to me, no matter the nature of their grave. But to leave again, well, that requires some deep magic. And the best magic comes from the stories, young Sea Wolf. He who rises from the sea, must return to the sea, that is how the stories go!” His dark eyes gleamed with a manic energy utterly foreign on the stolid face of Ned Stark.

He leaped off his throne and grasped Theon’s shoulders. “What is dead may never die!” He kissed his forehead.

Still dazed and bewildered, Theon answered automatically. “But rises again, harder and stronger,” he intoned. He stumbled back.

The ocean roared in his ear, as Ned Stark’s face began to fade. Theon saw Yara, trying to coax him from his cell. Robb, standing proud as Theon bent the knee and pledged his sword. Sansa, her lips on his. _When did that happen? Sansa, a kiss? When was that?_

The Drowned God’s laughter echoed, crashing like waves upon the shore. The world faded once more.

.................................................................

The last thing Theon remembered was Sansa’s lips upon his. Then darkness.

Now light burned through his closed eyelids. It was too bright to open them. He listened to the familiar rush of water on stone. _A shore,_ he thought. _I’m lying on a shore. But which one? Pyke? Sea Dragon Point? Or White Harbor, perhaps?_

_White Harbor._ The last thing he could remember were Sansa’s lips on his. Her hand brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. Her lips whispering in his ear.

Theon’s cock stirred before he could help himself. He flushed. _Cut that out, it’s Sansa,_ he chastised. _Wait_. His eyes snapped open and he heaved himself upright. His clothes were shredded rags, leaving most of his skin exposed. Skin that showed no sign of a flaying. He inspected his fingers. Each nail, intact. He wiggled his toes in the rocky sand. All ten of them, whole and supple.

His hand flew to the side of his stomach, where a spear had run him through. Nothing. No wound, no mark, no scar. Something between a laugh and a sob exploded from his chest.

_It’s gone. The past, Ramsey, the Knight King, everything._ He began to laugh, a desperate sound. _No sword, no debt, I’m free. I can go anywhere, be anyone._

He thought of Yara, her hand outstretched outside his cell. Yara, who allowed him to return to Winterfell. He had chosen to fight for Winterfell. For Sansa. Sansa, with her kiss. He frowned. When was that kiss? When they escaped Ramsey? Surely not. Their last night in the world, when they shared dinner and each other’s company? No, that wasn’t right either.

He thought of Sansa’s eyes when she addressed the lords in Winterfell. They shone with a fervor he’d never seen. She looked like a queen. _She has a real talent for making you love her,_ he thought. His mind flashed to her arms around his, her chin buried in his shoulder. In the Wolfswood, frozen to the bone. Before he returned to Pyke, when he knew she’d be safe with Brienne. In the halls of Winterfell, when it had all began. She smelled of pine needles and snowdrops.

He remembered the kiss, that mysterious kiss.

_Which shore, Pyke or White Harbor? Pyke or Winterfell?_

_‘You decide,’_ whispered the water. Whispered the harbor, he decided. He’d washed up on White Harbor, at the mouth of the White Knife.

Theon Sea Wolf climbed to his feet. _To Winterfell_. He’ll go to Pyke later, of course. He might be a Wolf, but he was still a Kraken, all the same. Yes, he’d find his way back to the ocean someday, as all men must. But first, he’d return home. To Sansa.


	3. The Drowned God

He can see through the weeping eyes of the weirwood. Through the eyes of the seabirds heading inland, over the tops of the pines. Through the eyes of the thousands of strangers in the wolf’s hall. Smallfolk and servants and lords alike. All strangers, to someone, to themselves, to their past selves. A drowned god has many faces. 

So he saw with perfect clarity when Theon Greyjoy walked through the gates of Winterfell. 

His clothes hung in shreds, like a man shipwrecked. But he looked every inch the prince. Theon walked without a trace of a limp, his mangled toes restored. He wore a straight, proud spine and a familiar smile upon his lips, a ghost made flesh once more. 

A silver direwolf glinted proudly over his heart. No gift from a god at all, this was Theon’s doing. And of course, the giver’s. 

When Theon paused before the doors of the Great Hall, his god was the only one to see his hand briefly flutter to the pin. _The pack survives,_ he thought. With a deep breath, he flung open the doors. 

A wave of silence washed over the room as a hundred eyes converged on Theon, framed in the doorway like the hero in a stained-glass window of a sept. Gradually, the hush was breached by whispers of “Sea Wolf”, and “It’s Theon Sea Wolf.” The Drowned God had spoken true. The name had caught on, as such names always do. 

Theon, for his part, didn’t notice his audience. Later, he would take in the vast hall and grim, empty seats. Later, he would seek Stark-dark hair in the crowd. But for now, Theon could see nothing but Sansa. 

Sansa, who would have stumbled back, if she was not already seated. She had seen his face many a night, sometimes accompanied by Robb and her parents and the other ghosts who haunt her sleep. His face was ever rendered in mist and shadow, as disheartening as a broken promise. It was the best a mere dream can do. 

But the Theon before her now stood as solid as stone, haloed in daylight from the open door behind him. Ghosts dwelled in the night. The day was for the living, only. _Living._

She took in his scarless skin, his whole hands. She glanced at his torso, which the torn remnants of his clothes struggled to conceal. Sansa frowned in confusion. She had sent him to sea with a gaping wound in his gut, and here he stood, whole. 

_No Red Woman this time,_ she thought. _No fire-priest to bring him back. How? How? I must be mad._

_It’s just like in the stories,_ whispered another part of herself. _This is how the stories end._

__

She riled. _But life isn’t a story, I’ve learned that now._

“Life is nothing _but_ a story,” murmured a different voice, a Stranger’s voice, in Sansa’s head. “You’ve much yet to learn, my dear.”

Sansa startled, thoroughly spooked. But the voice didn’t return. Then Theon approached, brushing aside Sansa’s perturbed thoughts like so many cobwebs. 

She met his eyes and felt a flicker of spring in her chest. She hadn’t realized how deep the winter had clung to her. She hadn’t noticed that, despite everything that had happened, despite the long journey to King’s Landing and back, despite her solid throne in the warm wolf hall, she had never left the frozen godswood. 

But now, Theon had returned, and brought the thaw with him. Sansa smiled. 

It was the sort of smile that told Theon that he made the right decision when he set out towards Winterfell. The sort of smile that called a man home from sea. Theon’s pace quickened, and soon he was practically running towards Sansa.

Just before reaching her, he took in the throne and wolf-crown for the first time. Theon checked, stumbled, then recovered. He cleared his throat, and knelt at her feet with a performative flourish.

“My Queen.”

The Drowned God smiled to himself, amused by the ambiguity of the moment. _My Queen_ can mean many things, when spoken by a prince on his knee. 

Sansa stood and pulled Theon to his feet. She brushed a trembling hand upon his face. His skin felt warm and solid and so very much alive. She felt his breath brush her hand. 

Suddenly, she was in his arms, and the scent of saltwater flooded her senses. 

Theon closed his eyes. An impossible memory flashed before him, her lips on his, warm against barren cold. That kiss was a fairytale gone wrong. 

_This_ kiss was a libation. 

The god accepted the offering. A god has many faces. So does a kiss born of suffering and succor.

 

* * *

Theon stood on a parapet, overlooking the courtyard. The Drowned God watched him through the eyes of builders and smiths, merchants and artisans, all rebuilding a life in the thawing ground.

Spring had come to Winterfell at last.

“Something on your mind, my lord Sea Wolf?” said Sansa from behind him. 

Theon smirked. “Just enjoying the sun, my Queen.” He slipped an arm around her growing waist and pulled her against his side. As he turned his gaze back to the bustle below, he said, “I’ve had a raven from my sister.”

“Oh?”

“She thought we’d like to know that Arya’s ship has been spotted.”

“Arya! Where? Is she on her way home?” There had been no word from her sister nor sighting of her ship in nearly a year.

“Well, apparently a selkie caught sight of her off The Lonely Light, heading towards Ironman’s Bay. So sounds like it, yes.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “A… a selkie?” 

“Aye.”

“And does your sister employ merlings to bring her news of Bravos, then? And of course, everyone knows krakens are terrible gossips.”

Theon laughed. “Such a skeptic! I’ll have you know krakens are quite real, my love. Although the only kind that gossip walk on two legs and bear the name Greyjoy.”

“As for selkies,” he continued, exchanging his Northern accent for the roguish clip of the Iron Islands. “The Northmen have their wolf-wargs, we Islanders have our seal-folk.”

Sansa snorted. Theon inwardly marveled at her ability to make even a snort seem graceful.

“The point is, Arya’s likely on her way. And seeing as she’ll want to appear at the gate and shock us with her stealth, I figure we ought to head her off with a feast waiting for her on the table.”

Sansa laughed. She did that a lot, nowadays. “Theon Greyjoy, you’re wicked.”

“No, I’m just well-practiced in the art of annoying sisters. And besides,” he said, giving her another squeeze. “There’s much to celebrate.”

Sansa’s hand reached to her belly. She fiddled with the fabric of her gown, thoughtfully.

“Theon,” she said. “How are you feeling about, well, the situation?”

“The situation?” He turned to her, grasping her arms. “For a long time, I didn’t think I’d ever…I couldn’t…Sansa, I lost everything. I died. And now, I’m standing here, with you, with _everything_. I feel damn well pleased with ‘the situation.’”

“Right, but I didn’t mean that, exactly. What I mean is, how do you feel about the name?”

Theon smirked. “I’d say we’ve got a lot of people to honor and a lot of names in need of babies to bear them.” He bowed his head in mock solemnity. “I offer my services for this noble task, my Queen.”

“Theon. You know that’s not what I meant.”

Theon’s mischievous grin slid off his face. He fiddled with a crack on the parapet wall. “I know.” He bit his lip, brow furrowed in a thoughtful expression. “I fought hard for my name, my love.” _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with weak,_ whispered the wind. The Drowned God could heal his wounds and send him home, but the memories would remain.

“I fought for it, and won it back. But…” He turned to Sansa. “I won more than that. I won myself. And I know who I am.” He took her hands, pressing them to his lips. “You couldn’t have married a Greyjoy, I understood that when we wed.”

Sansa remembered the discussion well. It was such a terrible thing to ask, after all he’d been through. But what choice did they have? The North bled for the freedom to follow the King in the North, whose name is Stark. Sansa could not hand off her seat in Winterfell to a Greyjoy. And any children with that name could threaten Yara’s hold on the Iron Islands. No, the squid in her belly must be named Stark. 

Still, she squirmed. Her name had been a heavy one to bear, and she had the scars to prove it. The name was laden with centuries of blood and vengeance and bitter memory. It was a name that made martyrs and nurtured nemeses. Was it what she wanted for her child, this scion of Stark and Grejoy? 

Even the name itself spoke of ill-fate. Stark. Austere and barren. A name fit for a long, winter night. 

_There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._ She thought of the dead rising, of the blue eyes of the Night King. _All men must die._ She thought of the stone Starks with their iron swords, Ned and Robb and Lyanna with her blue rose crown. And deeper, deeper, how many others lie waiting? Theon Stark, Edrick Snowbeard, perhaps even Bran the Builder himself.

A spring breeze whistled through Winterfell, rustling Sansa’s russet hair and Theon’s thick curls. _Winter came,_ it sang. _The pack survives._

“Theon, I’ve been thinking…” 

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. There already was. A legion of them.

“Let’s make a new name.”

“What?” 

“I think it’s time we build something new. Look around! Winter came, the worst winter of all, death came for us, and spring is here.” 

“But the House—”

“We can start our own House.”

“You’re mad. The lords bend the knee to a Stark.”

“Yet they bent the knee to a Snow.”

“Yes, but he was really a Stark, regardless of his surname.”

Sansa grinned, eyes blazing. “Exactly.” She paused, giving Theon time to reach for, and fail to find, a good rebuttal. 

“Anyway, entire Houses have been wiped out,” she continued. “There are new Houses with new lords. A Stark reigns beyond the Wall, a dragon is loose somewhere in Valyria, and a Greyjoy queen has forsworn reaving. The world is changing, Theon. We can make a new dynasty to match.”

Theon was silent. His gaze landed once more on the courtyard below. Then, “Greystark?” he ventured.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Don’t you remember your lessons with Maester Lewin? Greystark’s taken already.”

“Well, what did you have in mind then?”

The Drowned God pricked his ears. Some legends begin with a red comet ablaze, others with the murmur of a name.

“Seawolf.”

Theon said nothing. Sansa pressed on. “It’s perfect, look. The people have already chosen it. It’s a name for a legend. For a dynasty, even.” 

“Seawolf,” Theon repeated, brushing his hand across her swollen belly. “Robb Seawolf, first of his name.”

“What if it’s a girl?”

“Fine then. Robb Seawolf, first of _her_ name. I’m fully supportive of reigning queens, you know that.”

The Drowned God, perched on weirwood branch and seastone, nodded with approval. Then, he turned away and looked elsewhere, to other waves rolling and tossing in the sea of life and death, and the stories it carries within them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for sticking with me. The bones of this chapter have been rattling around in my head for a long time now. I can't tell you how good it feels to cloak them in flesh and shoo them out of my brain and into the world.  
> I also was worried I'd end it "too sappy." And well, I probably did. But I wrote the ending I needed for me, and I can only hope that one of you needs too.

**Author's Note:**

> As I was writing this story, I ended up spending some time on Arya's experience during Theon's death, and how both were feeling in that moment before she attacked the Night King. In the end, I decided to cut this section for flow purposes, and reworked it as it's own one-shot. It's called Valar Morghulis and you can read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18774274


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